


A Legacy For The Ages

by FOREVER_SHERLOCKED



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry Sherlock Holmes, Angst, Eurus Holmes - Freeform, F/M, I Love You Scene (Sherlock: The Final Problem), Molly Hooper Appreciation, Molly Hooper Loves Sherlock Holmes, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sad Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Loves Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper Fluff, Sherlock and Molly Angst, Story: The Final Problem, Suspense, The Final Problem, sherlock and molly memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-13 00:55:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28769682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FOREVER_SHERLOCKED/pseuds/FOREVER_SHERLOCKED
Summary: ~I wrote this for the ILY Anniversary 2021! I thought it would be cool to write Sherlock's POV, and what was going through his head during the ILY scene!~It's Molly's turn to be the butt of one of Eurus' games at Sherrinford, though not really, as it turns out Sherlock is the real lab rat of her vivisection. Everything there is about him and his emotional context, so it only makes sense that this game says more about him, than about Molly. We take a trip down Sherlolly memory lane from Sherlock's POV, and learn insight into the things he keeps the most private--his feelings.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 10
Kudos: 42





	A Legacy For The Ages

Eurus gives a fleeting smirk to the camera as she reappears on it for Sherlock, John, and Mycroft to see. “Now, back to the matter at hand. Coffin. Problem, someone is about to die. It will be, as I understand, such a tragedy. So many days not lived, so many words unsaid; et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera...”

Sherlock grimaces, facing away from the camera, and taking a ragged breath. “Yes, yes, yes, and this, I presume, will be their coffin.”

“Whose coffin, Sherlock? Please, start your deductions. I will apply some context in a moment.”

“Well, allowing for the entirely pointless courtesy of headroom, I'd say this coffin is intended for someone of about five foot four. Makes it more likely to be a woman.”

John furrows his brow slightly. “Not a child?”

“A child's would be more expensive. This is in the lower price range, although still best available in that bracket”, Sherlock replies, cocking his head a bit, a realization bubbling up in the pit of his stomach nearly as quickly as it came raging into his mind.

“That was a lonely night on Google”, he can hear John mumble in the background.

The pounding of the blood in his head gets louder and his heart begins to ache as he cautiously continues his deductions for only his sister’s benefit. “…This is a practical and informed choice. The balance of probability suggests that this is for an unmarried woman, distant from her close relatives. That is suggested by the economy of choice, acquainted with the process of death, but unsentimental about the necessity of disposal.” He see Mycroft make a move for the lid and wants nothing more than to stop him, knowing what would be upon it, or, at least, something relating to the deepest buried desires of his heart, because that’s what this was all about right? Him. His emotions, his torture. “…Also, the lining of the coffin...”, he drones on, willing Mycroft to stop, to not do it, to freeze. But he doesn't.

Mycroft turns the lid over slowly and raises an eyebrow, nearly looking amused. God, he wishes he could wipe that disgusting face off of him. “Yes, very good, Sherlock, or we could just look at the name on the lid… Only it isn't a name.”

Sherlock’s feet become heavy as boulders as he makes the decision to walk over and see for himself. He doesn’t want to. He can’t face this. Not now, not in front of everyone. Unfortunately, he finds himself locking eyes with a flawless gold plaque. Upon it lies the dreaded words in which only his heart of hearts has ever spoken in private, in the dead of night, in utter solitude, and only ever inside his head, for one person. Her. He looks at the words, trying his best to look unbothered, but he knows he failed the moment his eyes flutter closed, silently begging for her life. Begging for his own redemption before it even begins. A silent and desperate plea to save her, and a promise to himself to do whatever it takes to save her life from his sister. His sister. The one who has single handedly killed five people in the last half-hour without one single speck of remorse. There is no reason for her to let her live, it’s a game of hers, and Sherlock’s endgame is to save the life. “Context. Be like John. Save the life”, his mind screams at him.

John looks puzzled and looks over the words once again, simpleton words tumbling from his lips. “So it's for somebody who loves somebody.”

Mycroft sneers slightly. “It's for somebody who loves Sherlock. This is all about you, everything here. So, who loves you? I'm assuming it's not a long list.”

“Definitely enjoying it. Same way as he did in Serbia. Doesn’t matter the type of pain, just that I’m getting what’s coming to me as far as he’s concerned. Got it wrong again, /brother mine/, its for somebody I love. The deceased does not choose the sentiments placed upon their own coffin ”, Sherlock angrily thinks to himself as he paces around, ending up at the bottom of her coffin, and placing his hands upon it’s cusp.

Sherlock nearly lost it when his self-proclaimed best friend questioned next.

“Irene Adler?”

“Best friends are supposed to know each other, John! How in the hell can you believe that I am in love with a lesbian dominatrix? She was just a puzzle! I don’t much like them anymore….”, his inner voice yells out. Sherlock takes an inaudible breath to compose himself. “Don't be ridiculous. Look at the coffin.” Nearly losing air already, he pushes on. “Unmarried, practical about death, alone.” His words ring in his ears like a million sirens all at once. Sirens he had never listened to, and never paid mind to. Sirens that used to be in the distance, at arm’s length, sirens that he never wandered to because staying away was supposed to keep her safe from this. From him. From bloody all of it!!”

John’s face softens and he swallows a lump in his throat. “Molly.”

It’s nearly a whisper as Sherlock says her name out loud, as if sealing her death certificate the way he had witnessed her do for him four years ago in Bart’s morgue, after she single-handedly saved him from suicide. “Molly Hooper.”

His sister’s taunting voice rings out loud and clear over the speakers, nearly gleefully. “She's perfectly safe, for the moment!” Sherlock notices her change in tone in comparison to the other games, but he figures that she finds this particularly tantalizing due to his and Molly’s closeness. The only question was, how long had she been wandering around London spying on them, and how many of he and Molly’s private moments had she actually witnessed. There’s no other way for her to know what Molly means to him. Even he did his best to keep all aspects of his heart at bay, not only for himself, but for her wellbeing. He had thought before that doing so had saved her from Moriarty’s hitlist, but his sister’s incandescence is too sharp, too precise to trick.

“Her flat is rigged to explode in approximately three minutes, unless I hear the release code from her lips. I'm calling her on your phone, Sherlock. Make her say it.”

Sherlock can feel the blood drain from his brain, when he needs it the most, and he draws a blank, he can’t think, he can barely move. “Save the life. Save the life. Oh God, please not Molly. Please, please not Molly. Dear God, if ever you existed, please not her!”, he cries out internally, but externally he stands frozen, clinging to his gun, staring helplessly at the live feed of Molly wandering around her kitchen on the screen.

“Say what?”, John quips, unable to process the gravity of the situation quite yet, as he’s ordinary. It will come.

Eurus scoffs amusingly at him. “Obvious, surely.”

“Aaand there it is”, Sherlock thinks as John’s face becomes devoid of all flush as well. “No…”

“Yes”, Sherlock interrupts him, cutting him off, silently begging for him to just shut up.

Eurus’ voice trills in exhilaration. “Oh, one important restriction, you're not allowed to mention in any way at all that her life is in danger. You may not, at any point, suggest that there is any form of crisis. If you do, I will end this session and her life. Are we clear?”

He feels the oxygen escape his lungs, nearly suffocating him and all he can do is nod. As still as he believes himself to be, everything inside of him is quivering, screaming, wracked with a type of pure fear that he has never once felt in this world despite everything he has ever been through. The fear of losing love. Love…the one thing he prided himself on never feeling, never needing, never wanting. But it was all a lie. All a magic trick for criminals, swindlers, terrorists. All a trick for common enemies, and even friends and family, it would seem, and it always worked. Until Eurus. Everyday simpletons were easily defeated by his coldness, his unfeeling nature. But that was the point. The point of the trick. Underneath, Sherlock Holmes could feel worlds of emotions. It’s a choice he makes to fit situations. Like a light switch. Something that he could usually choose to turn on and off like a tap, unlike his mind. But with Molly, lovely Molly, turning it off was never an option, its stuck in the on position around her. Sherlock feels the room slow to a halt, as if everything is frozen in place as his mind, or maybe his heart, who is he to differentiate at this point, throws him into something unexpected.

Recognition. The frustration of his feelings for her only set off his rudeness at first. Especially the first five years they knew each other. His mind quickly flashes to images of all the times he has abused his lab privileges or her leniency at Bart’s. It comes like film from those old movies Mycroft likes, as if it is playing in front of his eyes instead of within his brain. The next reel is that dreaded Christmas. _“Miss Hooper has looove on her mind. The fact that she’s serious about him is clear from the fact that she’s giving him a gift at all. That all suggests long-term hopes, however forlorn. And that she’s seeing him tonight is evident from the make-up and what she’s wearing. Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts.”_ She had stood up to him, biting back, the way she always had, and in front of their friends, rightfully so. She put him in his place for the first of many times, and she had accepted his horribly lame apology. She had been so beautiful, so eager to impress him, to dazzle him. She had, but he had not told her so.

The next flash is brief, but heart-wrenching for them both. “ _If I weren't everything you think I am, everything that I think I am... would you still want to help me?” “What do you need?” “You.”_ Sherlock can see her face clear as day. Her genuine worry, sadness, and all the love she held in those watery brown eyes of hers. Those beautiful windows to the kindest soul he has ever known. He did need her, and she saved his life. Replaying the moments in her flat in the week following in brief flashes, he can remember her deep sympathy, her warmth, her kindness. The loss of his reputation, his legacy, his friends, and in turn, his life, had given him the most freedom he had ever felt at truly being himself with no stipulations. Nobody to judge him. Molly never did. After everything they had been through, she had never judged him for anything. The next flicker comes quickly and stays longer than the others. At the end of that week, just one day before he was to depart to the Middle East, they had really gotten along. He had felt /normal/. He had felt light and understood as they talked. Really deep, meaningful conversation, not just awkward small talk they would attempt between autopsies or cases. That’s when he had kissed her. Before he even knew what he was doing, their lips were pressed together. Hers soft and pillowy on his as he clung to her like a new type of addiction, and soon their tongues were dancing between ragged breaths and broken words of want. When he had woken up the next day and found her still asleep next to him, he had written a goodbye note, telling her saying it face to face would be too hard after the week he had truly gotten to know her. He should have said it then, genuine, untainted, and face to face. But he ran away like a coward to a near certain death, wishing for two years that he could go back and redo his departure. But he could not.

The next memory to come before him is the moment he knew without a doubt that what he felt was love. Yet he continued to never right his wrongs and never say a word. He told himself…no, promised himself, that it was for her sake, when he knew all along that it was only for selfish purposes. His opal eyes flitter across the memory reel with regret and anger as everything “Tom”, comes into play. Molly’s happiness swiftly ripped away by the man, when he had turned out not to be her Prince Charming, but a toad. More regret and sadness wells up into Sherlock’s chest as he hears his past words to her, and her knowingly solemn replies, despite believing she unabashedly loved the newer man in her life. Sherlock could tell she didn’t quite let go of her love for him fully, however. _“Moriarty slipped up, he made a mistake. Because the one person he thought didn’t matter at all to me was the one person who mattered most. You made it all possible. But you can’t do this again, can you? “I had a lovely day. I’d love to, I just, um… “Congratulations, by the way….I hope you’ll be very happy, Molly Hooper. You deserve it. After all not all the men you fall for turn out to be sociopaths.”_ _“Maybe it’s just my type.”_ Yes, he had heard her, and it made him smile into his scarf, and admittedly made his heart flutter, yet he willed his feet to keep striding away from her. It’s for the best, he had told himself. He wishes she knew that he had wanted to turn back around. He should have told her, but he did not.

The reel transitions to the next, very brief and fleeting. One vulnerable moment in a high man’s world. One big truth wrapped in the guise of a jab. _“I’m quite grateful for the lack of a ring.”_ Of course after the well-deserved slaps, she had continued to scold him. Though as beautifully kind as she was, her condemnation quickly turned into the most meaningful compliments he had ever heard spoken in regard to himself. _“How dare you throw away the beautiful gifts you were born with…”_ Despite all the pain, trouble, annoyance, and heartache he had caused her over the years, she still fully believed his whirring mind was a beautiful gift to the world, that, in turn, he was a beautiful gift to the world. As much as he acted irritated, she had made his heart flutter once again. He should have mentioned, but he did not.

Small flickers of soft words in darkness makes Sherlock feel her light caresses on his cheek and hand all over again. A fond memory of the times she silently visited him in hospital after getting shot. He could have opened his eyes a couple times, could have thanked her, could have told her how her words and her touch helped him to heal yet again. But he did not.

A fast clip of his attempts to kiss her in the ambulance again when high then comes onto his memory screen, and he cringes, knowing he should have apologized for his inappropriateness. But he did not.

Flashes of words of encouragement and empathetic sighs come next, the tingling feel of a wet washcloth upon his forehead, the memory so lifelike, as if he were detoxing with her a fourth time. But it has only been three to date. Once a few weeks after they had met, when he had nobody to turn to except Greg, and did not want to lose his connection to NSY as a newbie detective. The second time being during the Magnussen case. And of course, the last being the worst of them, after Mary’s death. Molly could have hated him too. Could have believed John, could have let him rot. But she didn’t. She put aside her own grief, and her own frustration and anger again, just to make sure she could keep him alive. So she could save him yet again. He wishes that he thanked her wholeheartedly, that he told her that it’s never his plan to take advantage of her endearment. But he did not.

His journey down memory lane slows to the end, the memory of a worn down and exhausted Molly Hooper, standing in John’s doorway, being the liaison between the feuding friends. She had little Rosie on her hip, dark circles under her eyes, hair a bit out of place, and mismatched clothing. However, she was the picturesque vision of a mother in purest form. Seeing her with a baby on her hip stirred up warm feelings inside of him that he had willed away at the time. He wishes he could tell her that she should not have been forced into the middle, forced into raising a baby alone for over a month with no notice, or forced to be the bearer of bad news to him. That to him, her kindness is profound and seemingly endless, and that she is the loveliest woman he has ever had the good fortune of knowing. That she would make a fantastic mother one day, as he knew she so wished she could. But he did not.

Now here he stands, praying to any higher power or even the devil himself to save Molly Hooper. To give him the strength to save her, the way that she had saved him all those times and more. He will destroy anyone, anything, or even his chance at ever laying eyes or ears upon her again if he must, to save her life. He would give his very soul to save this woman. Because Molly Hooper is the type of soul the world needs, not Sherlock Holmes. There are many great minds in the world, there were in the past, and there will be in the future. But there will only be one greatest heart. To him, that is Molly Hooper. Her heart and her soul are the purest the world has ever seen. As a human, she is naturally flawed of course, but she carries this purely genuine, kind, loving, helpful, and to him, utterly perfect and innocently giving soul underneath it all. London needs Molly Hooper. So goddamn, he will make any sacrifice to see to it that she lives. Anything.

“Anything”, he mutters under his breath as the room seemingly unfreezes where it left off and red lights flood the room, Jim’s evil grin tilting back and forth for a moment. “Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tick...”

Sherlock blinks, seeing the screen with an unaware Molly on it. “What's she doing?”, he inquires to himself.

Apparently, he had said that out loud, because Mycroft felt the need to clarify. “She's making tea.”

“Dear God, Molly you always answer, please please answer…” he thinks, narrowing his eyes a bit. “But why isn't she answering her phone?”

“You never answer your phone”, John says flatly.

“Yes, but it's me calling”, he says annoyedly. He knows how it came off, he sounded like a selfish prick like usual. But if they knew of he and Molly’s private moments, they may understand better. She always picks up after the first couple rings in case there was something wrong. Unless she was really, really, angry at him, or really, really sad about something she didn’t feel like divulging to anyone. She hibernates when she’s sad. Almost like him with his mind palace, busying himself, except she just cuts everyone off until she feels better.

“Hi, this is Molly at the dead centre of town”, she giggles lightly into her answering queue. “Leave a message.” Sherlock keeps a straight face, but internally smiles at her morbid joke. He always secretly loved them. Another thing he never got the chance to tell her. Then he looks at her face on the screen. Despite some pixilation, he can definitely tell she’s sad. “Oh Molly…what’s happened with you this time? What’s broken your incredible heart…I don’t want to break it even more. I really don’t. Oh, God. I really hope you can forgive me…again. But I understand if you never do. Why today when she’s already destroyed by something? Why!? Eurus please…please please please don’t hurt her…”, his inner voice cracks in agony.

Eurus’ voice raises in pitch, as if she’s enthralled already. “Okayyy, okayyyy. Just one more time.” She presses Sherlock’s speed dial for her again. Of course nobody seems to notice or mention that Molly is on his speed dial list. But alas.

“Come on, Molly, pick up. Just bloody pick up”, John mumbles, shifting his feet now too.

Sherlock watches anxiously at the woman he loves on screen. His heart is already beating out of his chest by the time she picks up and looks at the screen, debating whether to cancel the call. Sherlock doesn’t know whether to be relieved or crushed when she decides to answer, knowing what he has to do to her to save his precious friend.

“Hello, Sherlock. Is this urgent? 'Cause I'm not having a good day.”

Sherlock decides to depend on his terrible bloody instincts and say the first things that come to mind. He’s blunt, He’s straightforward. Maybe if he just asks politely she will blurt it out, get it over with and this can all be over. “Fucking moron, this is Molly. She feels so much more than you ever will. Of course it won’t be that easy. She’ll want something in return, you cock.” He brushes off his inner monologue and can feel his lips moving, hearing what he is saying as if it isn’t really him. “Molly, I just want you to do something very easy for me and not ask why.”

“Oh, God! Is this one of your stupid games?”

“No, it's not a game.” He begins to panic, his mind racing. “She’s in a terrible mood, she’s having a very bad day and you need to make this seem dire, but in a way that doesn’t piss her off. Just…just…ask her for help, you dolt.” He collect himself quickly and continues. “I need you to help me.”

“I'm not at the lab.”

“It's not about that!”

“Well, quickly, then.”

Sherlock swallows thickly, his mind drawing a blank for a moment. “She’s in survival mode. She’s trying to protect herself the way you do when you’re stressed. She’s detaching and lashing out. Try just being honest. Molly enjoys honesty. Don’t fuck this up.”

“Sherlock! What is it, what do you want?”

The red lights of doom turn on for a moment as Moriarty reminds him of the severity of the countdown, reminiscent of the bomb near Parliament. Though Sherlock believes if he had to choose between all of Parliament and Molly Hooper, he would save her in a heartbeat. THAT would be easier than this. This is like excruciatingly pulling teeth.” Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock...'

“Molly, please, without asking why, just say these words...”, he says coolly. “Dear God, what have I started…PLEASE just go along Molly. Please know that your life is in danger. Please read me the way you always can when I’m in front of you. I’m begging you. Please…” he begs her internally.

“What words?”, she asks, now looking confused.

“Oh boy, here we go. It’s happening…fuck, please Molly.” Sherlock looks at the screen, as if willing her to see him as well. “I. love. you.”

There is a deaf pause. Sherlock’s body thumps as if the entire thing is one giant heartbeat. He can read from her face that the direct route was most definitely the wrong way to go. “FUCK FUCK FUCK. SAVE HER! DO SOMETHING! DON’T LET HER HANG UP.”

“Leave me alone”, Molly bites out bitterly, moving the phone away from her face, as if to end the call.

“Molly, no, please, no!! Don't hang up! Do not hang up!!”, he panics, feeling his eyes sting with tears but forcing them away with all his might.

“Calmly, Sherlock, or I will finish her right now”, Eurus warns cruelly.

“Why are you doing this to me?! Why are you making fun of me?!”, she yells out, a slight cracking in her voice. He knows this reaction is all his fault. It’s everything he had done to her over the years, despite their good moments, bubbling to the surface. All the hurt, all the degradation, all the humiliation, all the time he had taken advantage of her kindness, even if he were unaware of what it was, coming to the surface. And everything he hadn't done, sadly. Coming to this day, in this moment, in this broken state that she’s in to spill over.

There is nothing more he can do now than plead with her. To silently hope, wish, and pray that she can hear through him to know how much she must do this. “Please, I swear, you just have to listen to me”, he says deeply.

“Softer, Sherlock”, Eurus coaxes, as if she’s now a fucking matchmaker.

He takes a shaky breath and softens his tone. He knows she hates it because it’s the tone he uses when talking to children like Archie or Rosie. But maybe using this tone will set off the alarms in her head. Because she knows that he knows she hates when he talks down to her. “Make it obvious Sherlock, that you’re being coaxed. Let her know there’s something wrong. Something Eurus can’t even pinpoint”, he tells himself.

“Molly”, he coos softly. “This is...for a case…it's... it's a sort of experiment”, he continues, speaking in a straightforward, childish manner.

“I'm not an experiment, Sherlock”, Molly replies quickly and brokenly, her alarm bells seemingly un-rung, but her feelings damaged. Sherlock can hear her in the back of his mind, reminding him of how he really thinks when she is around him. He had thought he had proven otherwise, but it appears that not voicing his fondness for her over all the things they’ve gone through, still gave her a gigantic amount of doubt. He knows it’s his fault, that she needed to hear those things from him, and he had totally failed as her friend. “I don’t count”, he voice whispers in the back of his mind. “Friend...she’s my friend. Just let her know that. Maybe it’ll make her feel a bit better”, he questions himself.

“No, I know you're not an experiment, you're my friend. We're friends…but, please, just…say those words for me”, he begs in the undertone of his voice.

Molly’s eyes are misty as he looks at her on the screen. His heart breaks that his failures as a friend has brought them to this. “Please don't do this. Just...just...don't do it.”

“It's very important. I can't say why. But I promise you, it is.” Sherlock tells her truthfully, pressing her, making it more obvious that time is of the essence, without saying as much.

“I can't say that, I can't...I can't say that to you.”

“You held back for so long after she gave you every single piece of herself bit by bit and this is your punishment. This is what happens. She is destroying herself all over again because of you. She can’t say it, asshole, because you already know she loves you and saying it to you makes her look weak, vulnerable, and desperate in her eyes. She thinks you could never love her that way, because she still thinks she doesn’t count to you.”

“Of course you can. Why can't you?”, he presses more, very well hoping she’ll just say it as the answer. That it should be sufficient enough.

“You know why.”

“Fuck. See what you’ve done due to your ignorance?”, he scolds himself.

“No, I don't know why”, he over pronounces, at another feeble attempt to set off alarms, armed with the knowledge of the fact that she does know that he does know why.”

Molly sighs defeatedly and sniffles. “Of course you do.”

The red lights glare again as the countdown depletes more, the situation becoming more and more dire, and Sherlock becoming more desperate. 'Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tick-tick-tick-tick.'

“Please, just say it.” He knows his voice is shaking at this point, but even if he wants to stop it, he’s physically unable to.

“I can't. Not to you.”

“Why?”, Sherlock questions again. Attempting yet again, to get her to even say it in passing. Just quickly. Fast. Like a band-aid. ANYTHING. JUST SAY IT MOLLY”, his mind howls brokenly.

Molly voice shakes and cracks, more unstable than his own. “Because... because it's true”, she whispers, barely audibly. “Because... it's... true, Sherlock”, she says louder, making up her mind to just fess up. “It's always been true.”

Sherlock doesn’t know why the hell he used a horribly uncaring and flat tone, but he guesses because if he hadn’t his ability to speak would diminish more than it had previously in his normal tone. “Well, if it's true, just say it anyway.”

“Oh God that sounded terribly cruel. Why are you such a…”, he thinks, cut off by Molly.

“You bastard!”

“Yeah, that. Ugh. Well, I can’t turn back now…keep pressing”, he internally groans. “Say it anyway”, he murmurs, loud enough for her to hear.

“You say it. Go on. You say it first.”

“Wait, what?? In front of all these people?? I can’t. I can’t do that. That’s humiliating, private, and totally unfai-…oh….” His face falls into a confused, yet desperate looking state.

“What?”

“Say it. Say it like you mean it”, she demands in classic Molly fashion.

“Well, you really should have seen this coming, genius”, his mind taunts him.

“Final 30 seconds!”, Eurus exclaims cheerily.

“Just say the damn thing Sherlock, you know it’s true. I know this isn’t the way we wanted this to go. I know this isn’t the time, or the place, or the audience. I know the first memory of you saying this with be tainted forever. But this is Molly’s life we’re talking about. Saving her is more precious than any self-pity. SAY IT. FOR MOLLY.”

“I-I...I love you”, he says clinically. “Jesus Christ, are you a robot? That was weak and pathetic, not to mention horrible considering how your heart is pounding.” Sherlock blinks and hears Mary in the back of his mind as well as himself. “Sherlock, do better”, Mary scolds lovingly.

He swallows thickly and looks directly at her on the screen, allowing his true broken voice to come out, unfiltered. “I love you.”

Sherlock sees Molly clinging to the phone with both hands, tears dripping down her cheeks and stroking her lips; a welcome memory of their kiss during his fake death. A flash of her own, remembering how there was, in fact, a softness, a truth, and a flame during that night. He wishes he could reach out and brush her tears away. That he could hold her against him and feel her curled up in his arms. That he could kiss her head, and then those soft lips yet again, before murmuring how much he means it, and telling her everything he never had told her before. Then he realizes she still hasn’t said it back in the present moment, and they have ten seconds.

“Molly? Molly, please!”, Sherlock gasps desperately. Time ticks down too fast and too slow all at once, tears beginning to fill his eyes again at the thought that he may have failed. That she could be gone in…six…seconds and she’ll never know how he feels. She’ll never know everything he meant to say. Everything he wanted to say before, to do before. She just HAS to know. She can’t die!”, his mind screams in pain.

Molly takes a shaky breath then releases it, breathing out the words. “I love you.”

Before he gets the chance to say anything else, Eurus hangs up and he watches her helplessly on screen for a second before his adrenaline dump, causing him to groan and bury his face in his hands, feeling the wetness of his tears dripping onto his palms, and trailing down the sweaty handle of his gun. He can feel his sadness transitioning to rage against his sister but knows he cannot snap at her. She could still hurt Molly.

Mycroft actually had the gall to try to comfort him, after how he acted all high and mighty earlier. “Sherlock, however hard that was...”

Blatantly ignoring him, he turns to the camera on the wall. Speaking up through gritted teeth. “Eurus, I won. I won. Come on, play fair. The girl on the plane, I need to talk to her.”

There is silence, which only makes his rage come closer to the surface, but he gulps it down a bit. “I won! I saved Molly Hooper!”

Eurus appears on screen and looks at him, a look of clear emotion and pity on her face. A look of knowledge and one may say if they didn’t know her, empathy. Faked empathy, but true dripping pity. “Ugh... Saved her? From what? Oh, do be sensible, there were no explosives in her little house. Why would I be so clumsy? You didn't win, you lost. Look what you did to her. Look what you did to yourself. All those complicated little emotions, I lost count. Emotional context, Sherlock, it destroys you every time.”

Sherlock walks over and slams the gun onto the coffin, his mind now filled with images of Molly within it, the plaque atop the cover as it’s placed over her lifeless body. A symbol of how his selfishness got her killed.

“Now, please, pull yourself together. I need you at peak efficiency. The next one isn't going to be so easy. In your own time.” The next door opens, and Sherlock can’t even bring himself to look at it. Instead he walks over to the coffin lid and walks it over to the hollow coffin. He places the lid on top of it, and gently strokes over the wood, then encircles the plaque, staring at the words. It’s not the words that would have killed her, not him saying them, and not him being close to her. It’s instead the lack of them, the ignorance towards her, every time he didn’t speak how he felt, and every time he bit his tongue, that would have killed her.  
  
“Eurus KNEW! She bloody KNEW! She knew he loved her! She knew Molly loved him! She knew this would break them, her game was to break them, it was never to kill Molly. They were mice, and she was the cat. She wanted him to admit it. This was to destroy him, to make HIM vulnerable. To exploit HIS emotions. To make HIM lose the one person he needed. Molly was a pawn. She USED Molly as a pawn to get to HIM. She used Molly just like he had all those times. Was he really as terrible as she? He was…he never told her anything. She could have died because he never told her how remarkable he thinks she is. Because he was afraid of feeling. FEELING. He’s a bloody human, who’s afraid of feeling! Who the fuck hurts the people they love the most because they’re selfish!? Eurus does. Worse that that, he does. He did. To Molly. He did this, and he broke her, and she will never forgive him. He’s lost the most amazing person in his life. Because Molly Hooper still believes that she doesn’t count.”

“Sherlock?”, John questions, he and Mycroft standing at the door as if this can be brushed off, as if it didn’t matter, as if AGAIN, they think Molly doesn’t matter. His fury builds until it pours over.

He is unable to contain his rage any longer. Against Eurus, against John and Mycroft for being so fucking stupid and ignorant, and against himself for being the cause. “No…”

They look at him curiously, about to ask him a question, but he doesn’t let them, finally letting go and losing all control, needing release.

“No!!!” He unbuttons his suitcoat because he can feel himself beginning to sweat, then screams over and over at the top of his lungs, using his bare fists to pulverize and splinter the entire coffin, feeling no pain, only pure rage and guilt. Sherlock screams and bashes it to bits until his lungs give out, his knuckles are dripping with blood, and the room looks like a tornado hit it. He feels himself staggering over to the wall, unable to hold his weary body upright any longer, and sliding down it, and covering his face tightly, his body wracked and shaking, beginning to choke out hard sobs as he did when he was a child, though he doesn’t quite remember what it was about back then.

After what feels like ages, he’s still and blankly staring at the opposite wall, unable to force himself to move, to go on. He doesn’t know if he has the strength or willpower to go through anymore. His hands still tremble with emotion and pain. John reminds him in not so many words, that they must continue in order to leave this horrible place. He supposes the sooner they leave, the sooner he can rush to Molly’s to explain. Reminding himself that he has to soldier on, John helps him up. As they walk out, a glint catches his eyes. Seeing the plaque on the floor, Sherlock scoops it up and tucks it into his pocket, then buttons his suitcoat again.

~~~~~~~

It turns out that the memory he couldn’t place of him screaming and sobbing before, was when Eurus had murdered his best friend Victor Trevor. Those memories tumbled back to him, and destroyed him for the second time that day. Once John was safe and Eurus was taken back to Sherrinford, Sherlock spent the entire helicopter ride in silence, nearly as mute as his sister was now. Probably just another horrid thing they have in common. He can’t take all the pitied looks from John and Mycroft. They had both asked if it was a danger night and he had ignored them. How fucking stupid are they? He doesn’t want drugs. Not cocaine, not morphine, not heroin. There’s only one drug he needs, and it’s not recreational. At least, not anymore. It’s medical. The only drug he needs is Molly Hooper.

That’s why, after the police swept her home for cameras, and against everyone’s (poor and disgusting) advice, he showed up at her door late that night, his hand in his pocket, stroking the smooth gold surface of those three little words she needs to hear without strings attached. That’s why, once convincing her to invite him in, he handed it to her and said it over and over again until they both cried in each other’s arms. That’s why he spilled his heart out in ways he had never done with another human being in his life. That’s why he told her the absolute truth about everything. Not just Sherrinford, but everything he has ever felt during every single one of their memories. He pours his soul out into the early hours of the morning, not making excuses or jokes, not exaggerating, or compensating. Just telling her the pure, unadulterated truth about everything he has ever felt for her, wrapping it up with the same three little words that started this entire spiral.

“I love you.”

Little did he know that it would be the first night of the rest of their lives that they would be saying those three little words to one another, and then to their children and grandchildren. That small golden plaque would remain in their family for generations, passed down with the heartbreaking to heartwarming story of the adorably morbid couple who started it all. A Holmes’ legacy for the ages.


End file.
